


Maintenance Man

by Missy



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Families of Choice, Family, Gen, Humor, Reunions, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 10:36:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2847875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Ventures and Sgt. Hatred come down with the flu, and, as always, Brock runs to the rescue.  </p><p>He's starting to think he deserves hazard pay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maintenance Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jougetsu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jougetsu/gifts).



It all started because Doc refused to get his flu shot. Normally he was first in line, all in the interest of ‘science’, but that year he’d had a particularly ugly experience with a needle-wielding henchman (called, quite unfortunately, The Stabber). So, for the next few years, needles left him cold. Of course, he had popped into New York to drag Dean home for Christmas break, and of course while there he managed to pick up a bug. It spread to Hatred, then to Dean, then to Hank. Two weeks later the four lay felled on various mattresses feet apart in the compound, H.e.l.p.e.r exhausted from racing from bed to bed. With the last ounce of orange-juice driven energy he could muster, Doc reached for his old panic alarm, slapped his palm against it, and returned to his fantasy about Susan Anton making him mai tais in Santo Palo.

That was when a crash tore through their convivial silence, followed by the heavy sound of a familiar set of footsteps racing through the kitchen and into the living quarters. “I came as soon as I got the distress signal!”

From the couch, Dean could sort of make out Brock’s knees, though they were sort of wobbly non-objects from his angle. “Brock!” warbled both boys together, reaching blindly toward him from the couch. 

“Boys!” he sheathed his bowie knife and frantically scanned their faces for clues. “Who poisoned you?” he asked. “Do you have any names? ANSWER ME!”

“Or…orange juice,” moaned Hank.

Brock pressed a palm to Hank’s forehead. “Aww great, you’re burning up.” He groaned. “Look, don’t you have anybody else who can watch you? Where’s Hatred?”

A groan, and something mumbled about tiny feet upstairs answered Brock’s question. “All four of you? Didn’t Doc remember to get his flu shot?”

“He got stabbed in the butt by a guy in a hockey mask,” said Dean.

“Yeah,” Brock said, glowering. “I heard about that. Okay, first I’m gonna assess the situation. Then I’m gonna make soup.”

“Can I have some creamed chicken?” asked Hank.

“No, Hank. It’s not good for your stomach.”

“Aww, darnit,” he mumbled, lapsing back into unconsciousness. Rolling his eyes fondly, Brock pulled the blanket a little higher across his concave chest.

“Brock?” muttered Dean. “We missed you.”

“Yeah,” admitted Brock. “I missed you guys, too. Just don’t spread it…”

Dean’s snore silenced him.

*** 

Up in the master bedroom, Doc was in the middle of a fever dream. Brock eyed the medication he’d taken, tested his fever with the back of his hand – and got slapped across the face as Doc came to thrashing life.

“VIOLET COCKROACHES EATING MY FACE!” Rusty screamed as he woke. He fixed his barmy eyes on Brock and wondered, “what the hell are you doing here?”

Brock rubbed at his aching chin. “Somebody hit the old panic button. I had to get clearance before I got out, but I came.” He shook out the thermometer somebody had dumped on the bedside table. He poured a glass of water from the bedside carafe and urged Doc to drink from it.

He did and it stayed down. “Why, though? You should have just called Hatred, this is HIS job now you know.”

“Hatred’s passed out on his back in the den mumbling about tiny feet. Enough about him being weird, judging from how sweaty you are it looks like the fever broke.” He shoved the thermometer under Doc’s tongue and headed for the closet, pulling out a fresh nightshirt. “I’m gonna go to the linen closet and yank down a fresh pair of sheets – smells like a sickroom in here. Don’t cheat with that thermometer, I’ll know!”

Doc shot him a foul glare as Brock retreated down the hallway. The sheets were just in the same place he’d stocked them when he’d been in charge of the family. By the time he’d returned, Doc’s thermometer read 99.0. “Good. Just rest for awhile and I’ll bring you some soup.”

“Brock,” Doc muttered, rolling onto his back.

“Yeah?” some part of Brock hoped he’d ask after the boys.

“Turn on the TV. I’ve been stuck READING for the past few nights, it’s been hell.”

“Yeah. I’ll do that, Doc.”

*** 

Brock shoveled some fluids into Hatred’s mouth before making the soup he’d promised to stir up. Somebody had indeed stocked the refrigerator, though nobody had eaten from it in weeks. Brock had to toss out a rotten head of lettuce and several pounds of mealy meat before finding the good stuff.

He found himself humming as he cooked. Huh. He never thought he’d missed this place until he’d actually set foot inside of it again. As soon as he polished off the soup he came around to dish it up to Doc and Hatred.

The boys were still asleep, but he put a kettle of water on the boil for tea. Eventually they’d wake up. He put in a call to Orpheus, who not only knew where he was and why he’d be calling, he encouraged Brock to stay, saying he’d tell Gathers there was a family emergency.

“Don’t get sappy, Orpheus,” said Brock.

“But you ARE family. A wonderful, GLORIOUS family!”

“Whatever. Just do what I asked, all right?”

“Of course! And let me know if you need to borrow my MUSTARD PLASTER RECIPE!”

Brock glowered and rubbed his ear as Orpheus left the line. The next few hours would be a waiting game, a concert of breaking fevers, bathroom breaks and cold compresses. First Hatred came out of it, then Hank – who immediately wanted to go to Dermott’s. Brock talked him out of it, kept him tucked in, flicked channels and dished out soup. 

Dean was the last to come out of it, the weakest afterward, subsisting on broth for the entire week leading into Christmas.

*** 

And then It was Christmas Eve.

Brock had managed to keep the family together; had even gone ahead and done the family’s Christmas shopping – and now that they were all entirely better the only thing he wanted was a nap and a bottle of Bud.

They were all at the tail end of their flu, nearly back to normal, with Hank grossing Dean out by blowing his nose and showing him his boogers. Doc was back to his old whiny self, and Hatred had regained his strength, pitching in as soon as he was able.

“Brock, I’m bored!” complained Hank.

“Why don’t you read a book?” asked Dean. “A book is like a friend that never leaves your pocket.”

“That’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard,” said Hank, “and I know way too much about weird.”

“All right,” said Brock. “Why don’t we order Chinese and stay here? I’ll even find Ricky The Rabbit’s Christmas Cancun Adventure….” He dialed through the stations, until the familiar rabbit’s face filled the screen. “I hate Thursdays,” it sighed. 

“All right, thanks Brock!” said Hank.

“Thanks for sticking around, Brock. We really have missed you,” added Hank.

“Yeah. Missed you too.”

Brock had seen this movie an incalculable amount of times. It was engraved on his brain after years of being Hank and Dean’s favorite childhood movie. As the twins gathered close to the screen, he saw Doctor Venture take a long drag from his mug of tea.

“Good job, Brock,” sneered Venture. “Now I’m gonna have Wibbly Wobbly Christmas stuck in my head for the rest of the night.”

“Yeah, but now they’ll be quiet,” Brock pointed out correctly.

“Hmm. Maybe I should’ve been letting them have TV time all along…Good work. AND Merry Christmas.”

“Ho ho ho! Santa hat time!” At that, Hatred popped into the room, the promised hat in his hand. He plunked it on Brock’s head, earning him a frown.

“This is stupid and you owe me double time for this,” Brock muttered. 

But around his freshly-lit cigarette he was smiling.


End file.
